Chapter Nine

Once again, we convene in the town square.

This time, I know the routine. The dead argue and shout and resolve nothing. The fear in the air is so palpable I can almost taste it on my tongue, like something metallic. Soon, the violence will come. I stand along the far wall and wait, expecting that we’ll slip away to the tavern like before.

This time, I won’t make excuses in order to visit Journal’s tower. My mind is a roiling mass as I avoid thoughts of him, the attack, and a certain dark-haired American. I’m not very successful. Every time the image of Smoke’s final moments pops into my head, or I relive that rush of guilt after our heady kiss, self-loathing and dread twist my insides like some ancient torture device.

Attempting to forget about the past few hours is even more difficult to do when Handkerchief stands so near. He tries to seem nonchalant, but I know he’s here to protect me. No reassurances or kind words would assuage his guilt about the attack. Soon after I fled from Smoke, the soft-spoken boy found me and begged forgiveness. His nose, which had been struck in the struggle, is bent permanently to the side.

“The bloody bastard moved too fast and he hit me hard. It was difficult to walk for a few moments. By the time I recovered, I couldn’t find you,” he said, his eyes dark. “I could hear you screaming, but it was dark and everything echoed.”

His concern made me feel guilty for ever disliking him. “Handkerchief—”

Something sharp jabs at my ribs, jerking me to attention. Turning, I see that it’s Ribbon nudging me. Her gaze is directed toward the front of the crowd, and I comprehend that someone is saying my name. “…a terrible ordeal for a young lady! Are you well?” Pocket Watch asks, looking directly at me. I nod, a jerky movement, and he clears his throat. His mustache twitches. “Right. As we were discussing, you are the first to survive, Key. Did the killer say anything?”

His words bring a memory to the surface—the cold sensation of a knife and fingers holding my tongue in place. I clench my fists so tightly that my nails break the skin. Everyone is watching me now. Feeling the weight of all their gazes, I force myself to answer. “No. The most I can tell you is that my attacker had a male build. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Pocket Watch says soothingly. I imagine him as someone’s grandfather, the one who always has sweets in his pockets and a joke to tell.

Unrest stirs in the crowd again. It feels as though the size of the square is shrinking, and I want nothing more than to leave. “How can we know she’s tellin’ da truth?” someone demands. It’s impossible to tell who. “Like you said, no one else ’as lived ter tell da tale. Not even Splin’er. How did one slip ov a girl escape?”

“You forget that I was there,” a familiar voice drawls. A hush falls over them at the sight of Smoke. The American strides through the throng like they’re water. He stops beside Pocket Watch and his crate. With his hands shoved in his pockets, Smoke faces them unflinchingly. Thinking of our last exchange—the kiss and, afterward, my horrified confession—I concentrate on the tips of my shoes so our eyes don’t meet. “I heard her scream,” he says. “I didn’t see the assailant, but I did find his tracks afterward. His and Key’s were the only fresh ones in that room. I would’ve kept trailing him, but there were too many in the alleyway.”

Eye Patch shoves to the front now. His left sleeve dangles, ragged and empty. “If what you say is true, then we can still find him!” There’s excitement in his movements. He seems to have dismissed Smoke’s violent removal of his arm in light of this new development. “We’ll simply compare everyone’s footprint to the one.”

His eagerness catches on, and as his followers form a plan, I recall an important detail. “I scratched him.”

Everyone silences. “What did you say?” Eye Patch asks, his voice even. But his eyes burn.

Sensing his doubt, I raise my chin. “I scratched him. I’m sure of it. There’s still something under my nails.”

If the crowd was enthusiastic before, they’re frantic now. While the noise increases, Pocket Watch looks thoughtful. He raises his voice to be heard. “Everyone will be examined. However, we should also pursue the footprints. It’s important that we don’t make any false accusations, and we’ll know who our killer is for certain if we find both the scratches and his tracks. Do you remember the place, Smoke?”

He nods. Without another word, the boy quits the square. “Wait!” Pocket Watch calls. “We still have to conduct the examinations. Confound it, wait!”

Nearly every citizen of Under follows Smoke, too excited to listen. I watch them go, one by one, until only three of us are left. Huffing, Pocket Watch gives up and jumps off the crate to hurry after them.

“Are you coming?” Ribbon asks, touching my arm. Spoon is already rushing after the group. I shake my head, and Ribbon glances from the alley back to me, obviously torn.

“Go.” I manage a smile. “I need someone to tell me what happens. I’m not keen on returning to that place.”

Understanding flits through her expression. “But you shouldn’t be alone, especially since now we know you’re a target.”

I shrug, as if her words don’t strike new apprehension in my heart. “I’ll go to the tavern and read. There haven’t been any attacks on this side of Under. Not with so many witnesses wandering about.”

“Well… I suppose.” My friend gives my arm a squeeze before releasing it. She runs to catch up with Spoon.

The moment she’s gone, small fingers grip mine. Jumping, I look down. Despite the many times our paths have crossed, Doll’s dangling eye is still unnerving. I pray it doesn’t show on my face. The child doesn’t say anything; she just holds my hand and her toy. “Will you walk with me to the tavern?” I ask.

She nods, and together we leave the brightness of the square.

Halfway there, Doll lets go of me. She walks ahead and squats in the alley, sweeping dirt away to reveal something buried. The doll in her other hand stares at me with its black eyes.

“What do you have there?” I ask, worried that she’s discovered another body part. I crouch beside the child and gasp at the sight of Journal’s scroll. She must’ve stolen it from the tower again; it would be impossible to find unless she already knew where it was. Doll probably doesn’t understand the writing, but I do. I read it over her shoulder.

It’s in the touch. I didn’t believe the rumors at first. Witchcraft isn’t real. Not real, not real. But it is! They said there were two of them. One, two. The maid heard them in the attic. Black magic. Then the pretty one died. Dead as a doornail. I was the undertaker. I touched her cold skin. Cold like a fish. I saw the other one at the funeral. Dropped my watch, she picked it up. Touched my wrist. One killed me. It’s in the touch. But which one?

The beginnings of an idea stir at the back of my mind. I frown, reaching for it, tugging at it, pulling it free. But just as I succeed, that familiar queasiness overtakes me. I try to hold back a moan. Bile rises in my throat. As I struggle to keep it down, I sense something moving and changing. Like before, the dirt all around fades into proper walls and hallways. I blink in wonder, but there’s no time to study my surroundings.

“I have something else to show you.”

Gasping, I spin toward the sound of her voice, certain my mind is playing tricks on me. But there she is. The girl from the first memory I experienced in Under—my sister, if these visions can be trusted—stands in the mouth of an alley, wearing the same nightgown as before. The candle in her hand quivers. I struggle to forget the scroll and focus on her. “More magic?” I manage.

The girl doesn’t answer. She steps back and disappears into the darkness.

“Wait!” I hiss, rushing after her without a thought. She halts at the end of the passage, a faceless silhouette. The girl’s bare feet slap the floor, and she leads me to the far end of the house. It’s night again, and the sound of snoring echoes. I strain to see her features while she opens a narrow door on the left.

Oblivious, my sister holds the candle higher. “Up here,” she says. I peer around the corner, and a steep flight of stairs beckons.

She brushes past and begins the climb. Flattening my palms against the walls on either side, I follow her. Each step moans. I count them silently, and when I reach the eleventh step, my head collides with a hard object. Wincing, I make out the dim shape of a ceiling beam, low and slanted.

“Sorry,” the girl says. “I forgot to warn you.”

She places the candle down on something. A strange shadow appears on the wall, and it takes me a few moments to realize it’s the shape of a harp. Beside it is an old wedding dress, displayed prettily for no one to see. We are in an attic. The girl kneels before one of the trunks. She uncurls her fingers, revealing a key that nestles in the center of her palm.

The key.

I feel my eyes widen, and I automatically look down at my chest, but of course the necklace is gone. She puts it in the trunk, undoes the latches, and lifts the lid so quickly that dust billows out. We both cough. Once she’s recovered, my sister rummages through the contents within.

While she’s distracted, I see something move out of the corner of my eye. Turning quickly, I’m startled when I see another girl standing there. One I’ve never encountered before. I step back, and so does she. Frowning, I raise my hand. The girl raises hers at the same time. The girl’s eyes widen in the reflection, and I watch as she studies herself.

She is not tall or stately—her head barely reaches the top of the glass and her shape is more boyish than womanly. But she has elegant hands and a delicately defined collarbone. The green gown is gone, and her nightgown glows in the candlelight, thin and made of lace. It nearly draws attention away from the girl’s face, which is pale and solemn. Her eyes are dark, fringed with even darker lashes. Her hair is a tangled mess. She has a small mouth that does not appear accustomed to smiling.

“Here it is.”

Dazed, I turn away from the glass in time to see my sister reemerging from the trunk with a large book. The pages are stained and uneven and I can’t find a title. “This is how I learned the magic,” she whispers, answering my unspoken question. She touches the cover reverently, as though it’s made of glass. I lean forward, curious, and she adjusts her hold on the volume so it’s propped against her thighs. The spine creaks as she opens it. “I keep it here, where I first found it, so none of the maids stumble upon the book when they’re cleaning.”

I take it in. My interest is so overpowering that I settle on the floor beside her. The entire page is covered in strange pictures and shapes, like the walls of this attic. Only there’s something more eerie and exotic about these.

“What is that language?” I breathe, awed.

“I’ve no idea. It’s not Latin, Greek, or anything else I’ve studied.”

“What made you look in the trunk in the first place?” I know it’s not my imagination, the sense of power emanating from the book. I bend closer, and the scent of it reaches for me, old paper and the terrifying lure of the unknown.

The girl turns to a different page, and I examine this one closely while she answers. “I was awake one night, thinking about…Mother,” she says, faltering. I sit up straighter, eager to know anything about our parents. “I knew that Father had removed all her things and brought them up here, and I wanted something of hers. To smell or hold. Anything just to remember. This was hidden in a false bottom of the trunk, along with a key. I wouldn’t have found it if a shilling hadn’t lodged in the casing. I tugged it free, and the bottom shifted.”

As if it wanted to be found. Instead of voicing the unsettling thought, I ask, “Do you think she knew about it?”

“I don’t know.” She strokes the ancient paper. “It wouldn’t surprise me. There was always an…otherworldly quality about her, don’t you think?”

The sorrow in her voice compels me to agree, though I don’t remember our mother and we may as well be talking about a stranger. “Yes. There was.”

Clearing her throat, the girl sits straighter and makes her voice brisk. “There are dozens of spells in here. Levitation is the only one I’ve been able to manage. I’m probably pronouncing all the words wrong. And many of the ingredients in the sketches are impossible to obtain. For instance, where does one find ‘eye of newt’?”

It’s a wonder she’s been able to accomplish even one spell. I squint at the foreign words, as if that will help make sense of them. Suddenly it occurs to me that, were my sister to succeed at another spell, she would not know the result until it was actually occurring. “What if the other spells are dangerous?” I ask, picturing those glittering trinkets crashing to the ground.

“What if they are? The world holds countless dangers. Most are worse than some old spells in a moldy book.” She says this so faintly I almost don’t hear it. I don’t know how to respond, and the girl saves me by getting to her feet and lowering the book back into the trunk. The latches click shut. She fetches her candle and says, “We’d best return to bed.”

Murmuring a reluctant agreement, I quickly follow her toward the stairs so I’m not left in the dark. In my haste, I step on the edge of the nightgown I’m wearing and stumble. The girl quickly reaches back to grab my elbow and steady me. Her fingers are soft and warm. “Careful,” she warns, and now she’s holding the candle in such a way that I catch a glimpse of dark hair. My heart pounds. I want so badly to ask her name, but by now I know the futility of it. What I’ve learned in the attic must be enough. For now.

My chance to speak disappears as the girl turns away. Sighing, I tread more carefully down the stairs and into the hallway. For a third time, we make the journey through the moonlit house and arrive at what I am beginning to recognize as my bedroom door. Feeling the girl’s eyes on me, I twist the doorknob as if I do it every day, and step inside. I face her, watching the small flame tremble. “Well, good—”

She steps forward, bringing a rush of air and lavender with her. “Meet me in the attic tomorrow night,” she whispers, the words eerily similar to James’s when he asked me to the boxing match.

A thrill goes through me. The little beetle in my head is saying something, urgent and cautious, but the words are easily drowned out at the prospect of another memory, another night of being alive, another chance to see magic and obtain answers. “Tomorrow,” I whisper back. The girl kisses my cheek, startling me, and hurries away. A few moments later I hear a door close.

Smiling, I turn to go into my room.

But I’m back in Under.

Dirt walls stare back, unaffected by my disappointment. What happened to Doll? I touch the key resting against me and absorb the absence of a heartbeat all over again. I allow myself a few moments of self-pity before straightening my shoulders. I should find Doll, make sure she’s all right, and get the scroll from her; I want to read the undertaker’s strange words again. Anything to stop myself from obsessing over Smoke and my role in his demise.

Since there’s no way of knowing where Doll went, I decide to check her room before going to the tavern. I retrace our steps quickly. My room appears first, on the left.Out of habit, I retrieve the torch and walk along its perimeter before continuing on, moving the flame high and low so as not to miss anything. The light reveals nothing but earth and familiar words. I’m about to give up when I see it. I smother a gasp.

Tucked in a corner where no one but me will see it, there is a new message on the wall. These fresh ridges are deeper and sloppier than the others, as if the writer was running out of time.

You are not safe in Under. You must find the door.